All things considered, Eddie’s been a pretty good sport since finding out
about Bruce. He’s taken a few unnecessary swings at my head, but once
you factor in his obsessions and psychosis and the fact that Batman always
solved his riddles, he’s been a good sport. He helped in the last
round against Joker just to pull focus from me, so it wasn’t Catwoman
fighting crime as much as all Rogues fed up with Joker’s theme-snatching
saying “Enough already” and punching back.

I owed him. He was in dire straits with this Grifter’s Curse, and
he wasn’t going to get himself out of it alone, not with his personal dark
cloud following him around wherever he went. So I agreed to help—under
one condition. I didn’t mind helping a friend, but I drew the line at
going to that lair of his to do it. He only set up shop on the East
End because he knows I avoid it like the plague. With the Post’s
nauseating lies about me centering on that area, it’s literally the last
part of town where I’ll risk being seen. Ironically, that’s another
example of Eddie being a good sport. Since he discovered I’m dabbling
in crimefighting on rare occasions, a lair on the East End was a way to
guarantee that we wouldn’t be running into each other. If a cape comes
knocking on his door, he knows it won’t be me. So he can pull whatever
jobs occur to him, I can indulge in the occasional date night patrol with
Bruce, and we both know our paths will never cross. Friendship remains
intact and everybody’s happy, Riddle Me-ow.

Except it hasn’t really worked.
He’s had one personal crisis after another since moving into that hell
hole—nothing that called for a drop in from a crimefighting cape, just the
kind of thing that needs a drop in from a friend. So I’ve sucked it up
and gone to the East End. More than once I’ve gone, and that’s as much
compromise as he gets from this kitty. I wasn’t going to be DRIPPED
ON on top of everything else. I let Eddie know that if he wanted
to see me under his roof ever again, he needed to find himself a new roof in
some other part of town, preferably one capable of keeping out the rain.
Until then, we’d meet at the Iceberg.

This was a new low for Edward Nigma.
The Iceberg Lounge, the one place a Rogue of his standing was guaranteed VIP
treatment, and they didn’t have a table for him. Raven looked better
than he’d ever seen her. She was in a new hostess dress: black,
sleeveless, scoop neck, sequins. The “wow” that escaped him when he
saw her had dropped his voice into the Bat-register. Eddie wanted to
think that’s why she refused him a table. The dining room was never
fully booked for The Riddler, so hearing an unfamiliar voice, she
must have mistaken him for a groupie. The dream was short-lived,
unfortunately, for she went on to address him as Mr. Nigma when she
suggested he “try to find a spot” in the bar.

It was easier said than done. He had to go through the dining room
to reach the bar, squeezing around tables of more fortunate diners whose
chairs were practically back-to-back to begin with. The reason was
clear enough: there was an icy-white grand piano under the chandelier that
had never been there before, and Oswald was too cheap to remove tables to
make room. Every table was full, and one man even tried to give Eddie
a drink order as he squeezed past.

Reaching the barroom, it looked like his only choices were sitting with
Hugo Strange, with henchmen, or with KGBeast. Picking the least
objectionable, he asked KGBeast what he was drinking and it was enough to
make him reconsider the merits of Hugo Strange as a drinking buddy.

“Salmon-flavored vodka?”

“Da. From someplace called Alaska Distillery. Moscow tried
this in 1972. Salmonka was called. This is no better.”

“Then why are you drinking it?” Eddie asked.

“I see ad on back of magazine behind bar. I am curious so I ask
Sly. He order it special, must buy whole case, he says.
Cobblepot say now I must drink it. Sly no will serve me anything else
until all salmon vodka is drunk.”

Eddie made a mental note to watch what he said in front of Sly, and
KGBeast agreed to let Eddie share his table as long as he drank a few shots.
Eddie agreed, with the bonus that by the third shot, as the chilled vodka
distilled with glacial ice slid away leaving the unmistakable whisper of
smoked fish on his palate, he’d learned why there wasn’t a free table to be
had in the dining room.

Hackers are thief-like by nature. The computer, like the urban
penthouse, has its secured locks and burglar alarms, all its goodies locked
away behind thick titanium walls and tumblers, or perhaps a biometric keypad
with a fingerprint scanner and a twelve-digit digital pin. It thinks
it’s very secure until you come along, knowing far more about how its locks
actually work than it does, and a few minutes later, all of its treasures
are yours for the taking. Since Oracle is the world’s best hacker and
Catwoman is the world’s best thief, we hit it off the very first time we
teamed up. I had no idea she’d been Batgirl, of course, so there was
none of that awkward tension you get with crimefighting capes. By the
time I found out about her past, it didn’t matter. She was a sensible
woman and we had a rapport. We could laugh together at the foibles of
the silly little girls (Poor Stephanie) and wonder if we had ever been that
confused.

So I didn’t mind using Barbara for
Operation: Help Eddie, but I did draw the line at Nightwing. So I
had to wait outside their co-op until Dick left for patrol, and naturally he
picked tonight to watch the end of a ballgame before setting out. So I
stretched out on my gargoyle and waited. Eddie would just have to
amuse himself at the ‘Berg until I got what I came for.

Naturally, despite arriving late in the crush of the third seating,
Catwoman had no trouble getting a premium booth in the dining room.
There was a stag table in the back who would have been happy to vacate their
place for the famous (and eye-catching) Rogue, but Raven gave that honor to
a group of tourists. It added a special thrill to their glamorous
night in the heart of Rogue Gotham. Raven then sent Dove who sent Wren
who sent Peahen who sent Jose the busboy into the bar to tell Mr. Nigma he could join Catwoman in the dining room. As Eddie pushed his
way through, the man who tried to order a drink from him earlier now told
him they were ready for their check.

Eddie slumped into the booth like a
desert nomad reaching the oasis, and Selina very kindly told him that he
“looked like hell.” Before he could bring her up to date on the
curse’s latest maneuvers to make him look like an idiot (kuram na sm'ekh,
as his new drinking buddy might say), Oswald was waddling up to them looking
insufferably pleased with himself.

“Catwoman, my felicitous feline, always displaying such discriminating
discernment—KWAK! What a testament it is to your exceedingly good
taste that you have chosen this particular night to visit us
again—KWAKwakwakwak.”

Selina had no idea what he was talking
about, but she guessed it was connected to the crowd so she asked what was
going on. Oswald went into ecstasies of kwaking at the chance to tell
the story again: The grand piano had been delivered a few days ago by
mistake. That afternoon, a perfectly ravishing creature had come to
the bar to clear up the mistake. Her name was Tawny. Tawny
Piculet… (A rapturous sigh here rather than more gratuitous kwaking,
for a name of such distinction should be contemplated in silence.)
Tawny and her sister Pitta were moving in down the block. Pitta was a
lounge singer, hence the piano, while Tawny herself… (Once again a pause and
a reverent sigh) …was a celebrity chef. “Celebrity,” at least, in the
minor arena of Star City. She and her sister had now come to Gotham to
make a name for themselves in the greater world—kwak.

Oswald Cobblepot was not one to thumb his nose at opportunity, and he
hired them both on the spot. Tawny set to work creating a new menu,
and as fate would have it, a tour bus broke down right outside their door
and a busload of tourists poured in to wait just as she finished a test
batch of her gourmet mac n’ cheese… Oswald paused here to eulogize about the
mac n’ cheese, the leeks Tawny added that brought such piquancy to the dish
and the slice of truffle on the bottom which infused the surrounding cream
with such flavor. By the time the replacement bus arrived, the
tourists refused to leave. When they finally did go, they evidently
spread the word at their respective hotels, for the phone started ringing
within the hour. Every concierge in the city wanted a block of tables
reserved for their guests, and there hadn’t been an empty table since.

Selina looked skeptically from Oswald to Eddie and back to Oswald, as if
she suspected a prank.

“Ozzy, you didn’t buy a smart phone recently, did you?”

“Why would I do such a thing?” he
sniffed. “I have a staff to take my messages-kwak.”

“Just checking,” she smiled.

He leaned in then and spoke confidentially:

“I was going to get a pair for Talon
and Crow, for the –kwak– convenience of our customers who have a
–kwakwak– a keen interest in sporting events. I thought perhaps
the phone that Edward was getting. But when I went to the website, it
seemed suspect. –kwakwak– 84 applications, wireless
internet and satellite. Too good a deal for the price quoted. So
I sent Talon to –kwak– see what had ‘fallen off the truck’ at
Willoughby’s.”

He toddled off, and Selina turned to Eddie with an I-told-you-so flourish
as soon as he’d gone.

Oswald stopped a waitress as she passed, took a bite of something off her
tray, and assumed a rapturous expression as he chewed and swallowed.

“That’s disturbing,” Eddie said, seeing Oswald approach the piano only to
have the singer beckon with her finger. (And what kind of a name was
Pitta Piculet anyway?)

“It is,” Selina agreed. Oswald
Cobblepot, bloated with happiness, turning pink as a svelt lounge singer
twirled his hair in her fingers, pinched his ear and crooned at him…
“Disturbing” was the mot juste.

“I didn’t think you believed in the curse,” Eddie said, eyes riveted on
the scene with morbid fascination.

“Well, I haven’t completely dismissed the possibility that you’re faking
it, that you and Ozzy are making all this up just to pull my leg. But
since I can’t see what either of you would get out of it, I’m giving you the
benefit of the doubt.”

“How nice of you,” Eddie said flatly. It occurred to him that if he
really wanted to convince her, he probably could. He could remove all
doubt the way he’d convinced KGBeast: by cutting cards. He’d lost 14
consecutive hands and had to buy the entire case of salmon vodka as a
result. (Although he had no intention of drinking the stuff like Beast
was doing, that was just dumb.) Then he’d fumbled shuffling the cards,
spraying half of them onto the floor, and when he bent to pick them up, he
hit his head on the table… He decided it was fine to let Selina
entertain a few doubts.

“Eddie, you know if it’s true, if it really is the Grifter’s Curse, then
there’s only one way to break it. You’ve got to con them back.”

“And how do you suggest I do that, ‘Lina? I don’t know where these
people are. That website could be out of L.A. or Metropolis or
Vancouver for all I know.”

“They’re right here in Gotham,” Selina smirked. “Which is good,
because I don’t relish the idea of getting on a plane with you.”

“Does that mean you’re going to help?”

“Of course I’m going to help, you knew that when you first called me.
Now then, DreamFixer is one of a dozen websites owned by—”

“Hey, Cat, mind if I join you?”

Matt Hagen. Clayface. He was a regular at Vault when I was
posing as queen of the underworld. Really attached himself to me, like
a shapeshifting bodyguard/bouncer. Half the time he’d do it as a
leopard or a cheetah, once as a pair of fully mained lions. It added a
lot of panache to my appearance but I could never figure out what he got out
of it. I know he didn’t have a crush on me, it was nothing like that.
The best I can figure, he just liked the company.

Eddie grumbled when he asked to join
us. I could tell he wanted to get down to work on the DreamFixer
problem and this was interruption. But it was my table, not his, and I
couldn’t help thinking there is always room for a shapeshifter when
you’re planning a con. I slid over and made room, Matt sat
down, and after a few complaints about the “Do you have a reservation”
treatment from Raven (Matt had been an A-Lister in Hollywood and held on to
the attitudes when it came to things like getting a table and being on the
list), we brought him up to speed on the Eddie situation.

“Grifter’s Curse? I never heard of such a thing. And it’s
real? I don’t believe it.”

Hagen let out a low whistle, morphed into KGBeast and said “Dats is some
fiercely bad luck, Comrade Riddles.”

Not surprisingly, he drew the attention of the entire room. The
tourist half applauded. The singer decided to reclaim their attention
with a Tchaikovsky flourish over the piano keys, and in short, my quiet,
inconspicuous booth at the Iceberg was no longer a fit place to plan a
crime. I suggested we relocate, and Matt said he knew a place.

The Club Room was one of those spots hidden away in the forgotten cubby
holes of SoHo that understood the importance of a discreet entrance that
isn’t particularly easy to find. We followed Matt—transformed from
clay man to a suntanned Wall Street type for the occasion—past a pair of
fake guard dogs, up a flight of stairs, behind a velvet rope and through a
small unmarked door. Matt greeted the doorman as “Vinny,” and Vinny
admitted us to a homey room populated with large, comfy couches and leather
armchairs, leopard-print throw pillows and splayed palm trees. Over
each conversational nook hung an enormous black-and-white photograph: Paul
McCartney at the piano, Jimmy Stewart in a fedora, Peter O’Toole in evening
clothes looking very suave and holding a cigarette, a foursome of Vincent
Price, Christopher Lee and a couple horror stars from the 50s I didn’t
recognize. Matt led us through the main room to what was clearly his
preferred spot: a side parlor with a big picture of the Bond-era Sean
Connery in a bathtub, sipping a martini. I love Gotham, I really do.
Places like The Club Room are one of the reasons.

We got comfortable and got down to work beginning with the intel Oracle
dug up about the website that had taken Eddie’s money…

“One of a dozen owned by Marcus and Paula Smek. They peddle
electronics, most of which is several grades below what’s advertised.
Basically whatever they can pick up cheap anywhere in the world, repackage
and sell elsewhere: obsolete DVD players from Tokyo become state of the art
gaming systems in Philadelphia and BluRay players in London. The other
sites push luxury bedding—most from sweat shops in Singapore, sporting
goods—most made by political prisoners in China, and an assortment of
counterfeit items from designer handbags to books and movies.”

“Less work for us then,” Selina smiled. “I don’t know about you
two, but ‘rich and stupid’ is my favorite combination. Greedy means
they’re going to swallow any tale we tell them. People see what they
want to see. In this case, they’ll see the money shining out there on
the horizon and that’s all they’ll see. It’s all they’ll want to see,
it’s all they’ll care about. And petty means they deserve it.
These two definitely have it coming.”

“Aren’t we assuming quite a lot from the business practices of a
website?” said Hagen.

“He’s right. ’People see what they want to see,’ ‘Lina?
Aren’t you jumping to a lot of conclusions about this couple just because
they don’t defeat alarm systems and steal Picassos?”

“I’m not jumping to conclusions,” Selina purred. “I know them.
Both of them. They’re members at Bruce’s country club. In fact,
they’re always trying to get me to play tennis. Insanely competitive.
Type 3s. That’s our in.”

“Um, I don’t follow,” said Hagen.

“The Bruce Wayne crowd that flit around ‘Lina since she took up with Mr. Moneybags fall into a number of categories,” Eddie explained. “But
don’t try to keep track of the numbers because she keeps changing them.”

“I do not,” Selina laughed.

“She does,” Eddie repeated, ignoring her and directing his words only to
Matt Hagen. “First group had their eye on Wayne for themselves or
their daughters. They’re not too pleased that he’s off the market, but
they try to hide it since they figure ‘Lina’ll be deciding who gets an
invite to all the Wayne shindigs from now on. Second group, they know
she’s broken into Buckingham Palace and had a go at the crown jewels, so—”

“It was Windsor Castle for a Rembrandt,” Selina interrupted. “The
crown jewels are in the Tower of London—”

“And you had a go at them twice,”
Eddie interrupted right back.

“Actually I think it was three times,” Selina said under her breath, and
her index finger twitched a few times over the next several minutes as she
tried to work it out. Maybe it was four times, actually…

“Anyway, they know Catwoman steals things like Rembrandts and crown
jewels, and they’d just love to imagine their own baubles are in the same
league as the queen’s. So whenever they see Selina, they make a big
production auditioning their jewels. The third group—”

“That these Smek people are in,” Matt said to show he was following.

“Actually, the third group is Richard Flay.”

“The third group is one man?” Hagen said skeptically.

“He is in a category by himself, and we’ll leave it that,” Eddie said
sourly, remembering Richard Flay’s penchant for flirting with him whenever
he showed up at society events.

“Hungry,” Selina said coolly. “Some of the hungry ones are new
money, some married into it. Some are just insecure. They’re
always looking for an angle or an edge. Like their knowing you is a
means to an end, it’s not a social exercise. It’s all about what you
can do for them.”

“Producers,” Matt said instantly.

“O-kay,” Selina said uncertainly.

“Look on their friends as assets more than people?” Matt asked.

“Yeah, that’s them,” she nodded.

“Producers,” he said again decisively.
“People like that, you want to give them an opportunity to use you.
They’ll eat that up every time. Bringing them a deal won’t work, but
if they spot it for themselves, if they figure out a way to take advantage…”

“Well, like I said, what they usually want from me is tennis,” Selina
smiled. “The others Eddie mentioned, they either focus on the fact
that I’m with Bruce, or else if they see ‘Catwoman,’ they see ‘jewel thief.’
The Smeks are a little different. It hasn’t escaped their attention
that Catwoman is very athletic. They like idea of a doubles partner
that can hold her own against Batman’s right cross, who they can innocently
introduce as ‘Brucie Wayne’s little friend’ and have their mark write me off
accordingly—right up until the moment I spin Dwight Raifford’s serve back at
him with the force of a razor-tipped batarang.”

“A ringer,” Matt laughed.

“Quite.”

The waitress brought their
drinks—except for Eddie’s, which she got wrong. When she was gone, he
spoke up: He didn’t see how any of this could help him. He
needed to con the Smeks in order to get his mojo back. He
couldn’t just beat them at tennis. Matt, who had been offered a good
few con artist parts in his day, was happy to explain:

“Selina is your roper. She’s
made first contact with The Mark through this tennis club. She will
then introduce them to you, The Inside Man. You, Inside Man,
will tell them The Tale, the narrative of your con. Do you have
something in mind?”

“I’ve an idea that I’m working on,” Eddie murmured, with a winsome glance
at Selina.

“Then all you need is a Fixer,”
Matt said smugly. “Someone to create the world of the con, the reality
your mark will get caught up in. The fixer makes sure that, wherever
your mark looks, your story holds up. You lay the bait, and...”

“Easy, Matt,” Selina said, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s
an anagram. Get hints…”

Matt Hagen’s mouth dropped open, completely confused.

“The sting,” Selina whispered.

“Ah.”

There were a few things I hadn’t told
Eddie about the Bristol Country Club. The land had originally belonged
to the Van Schuyler family, aka Richard Flay’s ancestors. It was at
least a hundred years since they’d sold it off or donated it, however it
came to be the grounds of the club… Point is, it was once theirs, and
the remaining Van Schyler estate began at the north end of the golf
course—that’d be the present day Flay estate, as in Richard Flay’s house.
I figured in Eddie’s present state of mind, he was better off not knowing.
I hadn’t decided if there actually was a curse or if it was just Eddie’s
belief making him into a disaster magnet, but I knew the increased
likelihood of running into Richard would make him a nervous wreck either
way. And I needed his best game if this con was going to work.

I also didn’t tell him that if there
were functioning curses in operation, there might be one hanging over
me where the Bristol Country Club was concerned. Before Bruce, it was
just a series of failed robberies and one garden variety bad date. The
robberies seemed like improbably bad luck at the time, but now of course, I
can chalk them up to the bland Mr. Wayne yawning in the corner,
consoling himself after a bad putt on the 12th green. The
date, well, Wall Street types do like to brag about their portfolios and
this one was a wine snob. He picked Château de Poulignac to show off,
and I spent the evening staring at a picture of Francois’s house on the
label. One coincidence like that does not a curse make.

Since Bruce: it was at the Bristol where he introduced me to the fop
personality without any warning or explanation. That was fun.
Gladys Ashton-Larraby chased me into the ladies room to make sure I knew her
canary diamonds were catworthy. There was a garden party where
everyone who’d been to Dick and Barbara’s wedding had to tell “that
priceless story” about the Mrs. Wayne mix-up… And finally, it was at
the Bristol Country Club where Richard Flay reminded me that the MoMA was
getting ready to reopen, which ignited a lot of the unresolved Bat/Cat
issues.

So nothing that extraordinary, nothing
that screamed jinx-hex-curse, beware-beware-beware. It just wasn’t
the most encouraging history one could hope for when kicking off a con
there, a form of criminal enterprise in which confidence—not to mention
luck—play a certain role. I figured the less Eddie knew on that score,
the better. But I did tell him what he needed to know, like
how to get there. Consider my pique when, sitting in the lounge
ten minutes past the hour he was supposed to meet me, my cell rang. It
was Alfred.

..:: There is a Mr. Nigma here to see you, Miss. When I
informed him that you were not at home, he said that he was aware of that
fact, as he was on his way to meet you. He expressed a desire that I
should call you and convey the message that he is lost. ::..

Throughout this pretty speech, I heard Eddie’s voice pipe up occasionally
in the distance, saying “Lina…” “Lina…” “tried to call” “stupid
phone won’t work” and finally “Lake.” The last was explained by:

..:: I have consulted the directions he is holding on what appears to
be the reverse of a greasy receipt from a fast food restaurant, Miss.
I regret to say they do not lend credence to his tale. If followed,
these directions would deposit him into the water trap on the 9hhgreen. ::...

“Your butler doesn’t like me,” Eddie announced when he finally arrived.

“Probably not,” I laughed.
Alfred tends to echo Bruce’s view of most people, particularly the Rogues.
Even though Eddie is far less deadly than the typical villain, Bruce’s
attitude towards him is… spikier than with the others, particularly
since he worked out the secret. At least that was the reason I assumed
Alfred had been a little abrupt, until I saw the directions Eddie had to
begin with. It was scribbled down exactly the way I had told him,
except there was a grease spot where he wrote the turnoff onto Country Club
Drive. Missing that turn but following the rest of the directions he’d
taken down, he would’ve continued onto the Wayne property and been driving
in the general vicinity of... No wonder Alfred was suspicious.

I was starting to believe in the
curse. Messing up the directions, that could happen to anyone.
Messing them up in that particular way… Then again, as unlucky
as Eddie had been, he hadn’t make the absolute worst blunder possible.
If he’d continued on with these directions instead of breaking off and going
to the house to ask for help, he could have driven right past the entrance
to the Batcave. That would’ve tripped about sixty alarms and brought
down the wrath of the Psychobat in an epoch-making manner.

Eddie had actually dodged a bullet. It was the first ray of hope
since this whole miserable business began. And the unkindest cut of
all was that I couldn’t tell him.